Black and white keys
by Howbrighthesky
Summary: Sherlock is depressed, bored, warning suicidal thoughts, major whump in later chapters. in progress, sorry no Johnlock. there is no plot as far as i can tell but if i get enough positive reviews i will continue there's more in my notepad just waiting to be uploaded. ps i do not own sherlock (: -DISCONTINUED


Prologue: black and white keys...

It was a cold life on 221 baker St. The rent was minimal. Mrs Hudson was a delightful letter, and over all there was nothing of notable proportions worthy of complaint, forgetting that same enduring- ever present .coldness. There was a sense of... stillness that clung to its many surfaces, one that left no traces but gave the impression on the sleep deprived mind of a thing that was trying its very best to be insignificant, the perfect shade of grey that would allow it to simply melt away into the shadows... and was failing miserably.

It was a time machine ,a paradox, sucking you in. it paid little heed to the goings on of the outdoors, the unknown and quite uninteresting , it didn't need to, 221 baker street had its own laws, made its own deductions, and because of this became both a sanctuary- and a prison .once inside you never quite knew if you would ever return to the place you came from with a smooth transition or as a result of your own feeble anatomy every limb and fiber would be obliterated and blown a part with such force that the entire of London was coated with your blood.

you could spend your entire life in that flat, step out on at the exact moment your death was scheduled .fade away into some rotten unknown dimension where there's no such thing as a Jaffacake-And no one would even notice. It was all so dull! People . Faces .just another suit, anything in the plural, coats all different shades of black and grey, ready to run like paint on paper as soon as the similarly colored clouds begin to drizzle into the pavement.

Passing by like wraiths, buses, trains, other mundane modes of transport. Life in general, it didn't seem like living. The definition is inaccurate. All those . _stupid _. people need something to believe in. I wonder sometimes, when its dark and i'm exhausted, yet dry eyes still stair outward in the darkness, when i'm hungry my stomach a carved out abyss something stuck inside clawing at dry walls.I just can't eat because it's too cold and no matter what I do my muscles ache along with worn old bones, just one too many nights in the lab, one too many welts hidden from john, one too many days dead without sustenance,crisp cool soothing water, and a night with nothing at all. To do or otherwise when I'm fighting it and there are no more nicotine patches... there is no more cocaine, and the harsh yellow streetlights sour my face and skin my eyes. A body,a zombie, a corpse.

I wonder sometimes if I'm the only one whose truly awake in this world, that other people are born, live, and die,spending their entire lives in some faith induced trance, perceiving so little of their own sleepy lives in which murder is something that happens to their cousins friend, a distant relative, that man on the news.

And are only able to rationalise death. The endless battle with the shadows within by watching television , or reading books , too stupid to realise that the world is just one mammoth story, rows and rows of words tied in a knot and crinkled up- into some semblance of reality, one where we perceive using senses evolved over millions of years under the wishful thinking of supposed Gods

Only to decompose and give in always to our inevitable demise.

The room is dark, as usual, I haven't yet turned the lights on, the frilly net curtains Mrs. Hudson bought nine years ago and washed last week at the laundrette across the street drifting gently towards me and wafting hot vapour from my steaming tea into my face in short gentle breaths. I raise the cup to my lips and _sip_.

I sit there as the clouds roll and sirens whir, the endless traffic of London, a young boy, 14, short hair, crew cut, expensive shoes, a gift from his father who lives in... Scotland- judging by the shocking black hair and pale complexion. Also the fact that that one pair of shoes could only have been made by one particular shop in Invern , it's obvious he hasn't had much family influence( much good influence anyway), note the way he shy's away from large family groups. He grips a paper in his left hand. The times. Intelligent but he hasn't opened it , not even to flick through, the paper's for his mother who's a solicitor, this would fit in nicely with the cost of school fees for St Barts and the content of that issue, Not forgetting his pressed trousers he had washed for him at the very same establishment our dear Mrs Hudson washed her curtains. A silver signet ring. Why give such a thing to a boy of 14 if he was going to lose it? So of wealthy background, doesn't see his parents much, anxiety.

His uniform is stained with paint, the sort used in an art exhibit, oil paint perhaps? Advanced art classes: Mary Duchrree' £450 per term, I can visualize the root he takes thrice weekly in my mind, the bus journey each day in total lasts 14 minutes and is free because of his student travel card, the one poking out of his pocket. He whistles for a cab rubbing nervously at his red and purple sleeve- he wishes to hide the fact he is talented at art, it doesn't take much to work out that his mother thinks he's some sort of child prodigy (or "would really love it if you worked just a tiny bit harder this weekend with your studies") he is an artist. I can tell from the way everything he has been allowed to control himself is artful and just a little bit messy: chewed pencils poking out of his pocket, mud on the backs of his shoes, a strange colourful scarf made of acrylic and not cashmere drawing attention to the odd socks peeking out of the bottom of his immaculate trousers... tinted red glasses, he walks with a strut stepping into the awaiting cab delicately, gay, and also chooses to carry a shoulder bag instead of some expensive but impersonal designer rucksack.

_Boring. _I sit there for a while longer, chilled fingers wrapped around the steaming beverage. Wondering why. Why such a creature as me was created, because what sort of automatonic being thrives in squalor? Tosses a coin and from the way it turns deciphers gravity, the spherical shape of the earth... can see into ones very soul and yet_ know nothing of the solar system because he deleted it from his mind, instead deigning to focus on more curious things before his feeble body withers and ignites.

Until there's no proof of his brief existence but the black flowers that grow from his scattered ashes. A couple more gravestones on the side. Or a couple less.

Sherlock Holmes was depressed. Four days _four days _and not a single case in a forty mile radius. Nothing so much as a missing cat! Not that that would interest him in the least. I mean really. A _cat_. Granted they where intelligent creatures. Unlike most humans a cat knew not to be found piss drunk with a knife through the side... _BORING! _He didn't give a bats crap about bloody cats of all things, all Sherlock wanted was a godforsaken _case_.

Sherlock placed his now ice cold tea on top of a sheeted experiment for john to find later and stood up tossing his violin bow up in the air pushing it swiftly to his shoulder and collapsing into his armchair in a sprawl of limbs and fabric, Beethoven, the choreographed more sorrowful version: a la Sherlock, but played very very slowly.

Black curls flopping into his face shading bright eyes pierced with shards of deepest** black**.

"Sherlock! What are you doing? Have you even eaten?"

John stormed in like an indigent parent, head tilted exactly 14* and arms folded provocatively.

Sherlock had been bedridden for most of the week. However being Sherlock he had first refused to acknowledge the fact that he-his transport wasn't functioning normally. And then tried his utmost to ensure that it was in such a sorry state that it was almost impossible for john to avoid taking him to the hospital- without Mycroft's help .

He'd just kept on running, chasing the criminal down every dimly lit backstreet, round every shady corner till he was left blinking and swaying over the dimly lit cobbles... and collapsed into a knee deep puddle, too slow to dodge the blow to the head that should have -by rights ,cleaved his skull in two.

The very whisper of thoughts in relation to the incident had cold shivers inching down his spine,

And of course after finally deciding that yes indeed the great Sherlock Holmes was in fact ill, Sherlock set out to remind him how much of an annoying bastard he really was.

he'd been a royal tit for the rest of the week and john had hardly had a minutes rest darting from place to place, but it was all worth it when after days of gentle urging Sherlock took his first spoonful of soup in God knows how long,... a grizzly thought at the back of his mind thanking any and all Gods that Mycroft's drip had proved unnecessary...

Luckily there hadn't been any major cases for the past six days and by the end of the week Sherlock was back to his own charming self, well, as charming as he would ever be.

"Hello, erm"

"Sherlock Holmes, be quick, and don't be boring!"

"Well, my-erm, my. Earrings... have, gone-missing?"

Exasperated sigh _boring _"they're in your daughters ears on their way to Glastonbury"

"Th-"

"Goodbye"

Bleep-

For one of the single most inspiring men John had ever met Sherlock took some getting used to, but he'd sooner suffer through hours of miserable viola ballads than live without him. Speaking of witch...

TBC

**I wasn't sure if I should have waited to upload this, I've got so much to type up, I use more traditional methods to write up my stories, I mean I can't take my laptop everywhere. please forgive me for the unsatisfying chapter ending. It's my first Sherlock story and any reviews would be welcome, I'm constantly nagging people about how I can improve and I have to say it didn't help much ):but I promise you the fevers taken grip. there will be more... ****_very soon _**HowBrightTheSky,...

** yes I really did mean very soon, I saw how many views this story was getting ( MY FIRST SHERLOCK STORY!) and decided it would be heartless not to type up some more straight away. I'm sorry for those people who read the first part but thank you so much for reading it (: ,...**


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